


Safety Hazard

by meravas



Category: Death's Embrace Series - H. L. Moore, Heart of Dust
Genre: AU, M/M, One-Shot, Scene Alteration, Smut, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meravas/pseuds/meravas
Summary: “Don’t let Gerald make you feel like you have to go.”Doran didn’t step closer just yet. He turned his gaze to Nathaniel’s face. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Is that your way of inviting me to stay?"They both knew Doran wasn’t talking about dinner.“Do you want to?” Nathaniel asked quietly.With his heart in his throat, Doran stepped forwards, and pressed his mouth to Nathaniel’s.*A different way that scene could have gone.





	Safety Hazard

_“Don’t let Gerald make you feel like you have to go.”_

_Doran didn’t step closer just yet. He turned his gaze to Nathaniel’s face. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Is that your way of inviting me to stay?”_

_They both knew Doran wasn’t talking about dinner._

_“Do you want to?” Nathaniel asked quietly._

With his heart in his throat, Doran stepped forwards, and pressed his mouth to Nathaniel’s.

Nathaniel didn’t kiss back straight away, still until Doran’s hand met his chest and circled around the back of his neck. Nathaniel issued a low sound, almost a grunt, and angled his head to the side, deepening the kiss. His hand brushed Doran’s arm, his shoulder, his waist – as though he wasn’t quite sure where to place it – and finally settled on Doran’s hip, his thumb dragging against the hipbone through the fabric of Doran’s pants.

Despite the stress of the sinkhole, the exhaustion that crept into his bones, Doran found himself coming to life.

It took everything he had to stop himself from leaning into Nathaniel, giving away how eagerly his body ached for Nathaniel’s touch. He groaned and broke the kiss, breathing hard, and pressed his forehead to Nathaniel’s.

“If you had any idea what you do to me,” Doran whispered with a grin.

Nathaniel pulled Doran closer until their hips and chests were aligned, and with a heavy pang in his heart Doran realised what he was feeling against his hip.

“I think I have some idea,” Nathaniel replied.

Doran groaned again. “Nate…”

“Much as I –” Nathaniel murmured, interrupting his own words to steal a kiss from Doran, “– wish to continue, perhaps we shouldn’t in my workshop.”

“Shit. Yeah. Of course.” He thought of Nathaniel leading him upstairs, feeling like that stupid, horny reckless teenager all over again – then remembered Gerald, who was probably pacing behind the counter like a shark. “Gerald won’t be happy.”

“It’s hardly my fault you weren’t able to endear yourself to him.”

Doran’s mouth found Nathaniel’s again, their lips dragging slowly together until their hips started to grind together in a steady rhythm.  

“Are you sure we can’t stay here,” Doran murmured, almost pleading. His pants were so tight he wasn’t sure he’d be able to move without doing something inappropriate; Nathaniel, by the feeling of things, was in the same boat, but he was doing a much better job of looking like he was holding himself together.

“Safety hazard,” he replied, voice strained.

“Even the table?”

“ _Especially_ the table.”

“If you tell me you prepare your poison plant on that table, Nate,” Doran said, even as he twitched violently in his pants at the thought of Nate bending him over it, “I swear to Lady Sionann herself –”

Nathaniel silenced him with another bruising kiss, and every last rational thought fled Doran’s mind. They tripped up the stairs, Doran’s hands in Nathaniel’s shirt, tugging at the buttons, Nathaniel’s hand gripped tightly at Doran’s hip, his fingers trailing the waistline of his pants. Gerald, thankfully, wasn’t at the counter when they made it to the main level of the apothecary. Nathaniel barked something hoarse to Gerald about turning in for the night and not to be disturbed. Gerald’s reply, echoing down from upstairs, was irritable.

Doran choked on a laugh, turning his face towards Nathaniel’s neck. Nathaniel chuckled too, the sound a low rumble in his chest that made Doran break out in sweat, his pulse and breath speeding up again.

The door to Nathaniel’s bedroom was kicked shut behind them. His hands found their way under Nathaniel’s shirt; Nathaniel’s hands found their way to his pants, undoing them as swiftly as he brewed his potions and poisons. Doran’s legs collided softly with the edge of the bed; Nathaniel followed him down, their bodies pressed together, the only barrier between them thin layers of fabric until those too were stripped away. Then it was nothing but them, Nathaniel’s hands around his wrists, Nathaniel’s mouth on his skin, and Doran stopped thinking anything at all.

 

*

 

When Doran woke, it was morning; a faint stream of red light illuminated the bedroom. To his left, the sheets were still warm. Nathaniel had left the bed and was dressing silently, his scarred back turned to Doran, but his head tilted to the side when he heard Doran wake, the corner of his mouth turned upwards into a smile.

“Good morning,” he murmured, pulling his shirt on. He didn’t button it yet – he turned and knelt on the edge of the bed beside Doran, who was still too sleepy to do anything other than lean forwards and press his mouth to Nathaniel’s.

“Morning,” he replied. He lowered his hand to cover Nathaniel’s right hand, where it was braced on Doran’s thigh. To his surprise, he found it uncovered – the black band covering it must have fallen off during the night. He glanced down and found a marking.

At first he thought it a tattoo, but realised quickly it wasn’t – it was a decades-old scar, a brand of circled superheated iron that must have been seared into his hand at some stage.

“What’s this?” Doran asked.

Nathaniel glanced down at it, and after he allowed Doran to trace it once more, pulled his hand away. “A reminder of a life better forgotten.”

He wrapped it in the black cloth.

Doran sat up, the covers falling from his chest as he did so. “Nate,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you,” Nathaniel replied, buttoning his shirt now. He glanced down, a small, if sad smile, on his mouth. “It’s been – a while. And last night was…”

“I know.” Doran smiled. “It was.”

“As much as I’d like to stay, I have to go down, set up for the day,” Nathaniel said.

Doran needed to go back to the slums. Hopefully Lien hadn’t sent out scouts, thinking he’d turned himself into the Archon after all. “I should go, too.”

There was a loud clang from downstairs; the cash register, which Gerald was preparing. Nathaniel grimaced, embarrassed.

“I hope he didn’t hear anything.”

“Ah, I’m sure he’s heard worse before,” Doran replied, laughing again. He pressed his mouth to Nathaniel’s again briefly, then pulled away and started to gather his clothes.

“I… meant to ask something last night,” Nathaniel said, almost hesitantly, when they’d both almost finished dressing.

“Yeah?” Doran replied, tugging his pants on. There was a beat of silence. Doran turned, his eyebrows raised. “What?”

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Your name.”

“My –” Doran stopped. Then he blinked and laughed. “Gods, of course you didn’t know my name. I’m sorry, I thought – I forgot you didn’t – doesn’t matter.” He grinned. “My name is Doran.”


End file.
